I love you
over the moon—
all the way above it,
high above.
Around the dark side
and plummeting downwards,
past the other side
of the earth,
around the bottom,
back up our side.
But still never touching—
and I don’t want it to,
Chamberlin (prompt: The Heaviness of Winter from Hannah Boutilier)
My 97 beats-per-minute heart
doesn’t know it could pendulum to deep
freeze response, and I have envied those
who can spare some fear
for the dark, but I, too, do
become more fearful
in it,
so I know a full, but only a full,
Dream Stone
Monsters in these caverns, and a guide will warn of one or two
but always forget the third. They arise, slink in and out
of the night, and we call it dance. Parasites that we’ve been
taught not to splash out merely stream through these veins.
Sweetness
Watermelon, just enough hydration to
get your body, enough sugar
to get your heart, stickiness
to snag your mind,
and I’m just enough rind to still be there
once you dare to take a bite. You’re so
summer, that I keep creeping up,
open roads that could use a little fuel, board
Country Entertainment
I don’t remember why the cellar was dangerous,
but the top level of the shed was 3/4 rafters,
and the attic was half gaping holes,
always in places you couldn’t predict.
You can only live on the edge
of a risk when forced to play it safe,
so we’d scale these dungeon stairs like a
ritual, to simply stand still by the
Order
I think it’s funny, the invisibility of hierarchies,
how if there are nine levels to the peak of the celestial,
I cannot see whether I am to climb
islands on the other
Sometimes I feel bad for the horizon,
distinguishing the shades of blue,
propping up our sky, holding
down earth’s ocean,
winds
leaves teardrops
nourish
you
decompose
to the teen visited by sad over-sharers in her dreams
I’m doodling down spontaneous phrases in the
handwriting I’d imagine the girl on the radio has,
calling it in retrospect a poetic exercise,
hoping I’m as accurate about the font
drink the spiked french toast batter
don’t say the national day off work aloud.
it ruins everything—turns it from a feeling into an annoying
lack thereof. but what i mean is, though i don’t have an album
for mid-july or december first, i always keep november
Alphabet Ravine 